


The Art of Walking Backwards

by SharpestRose



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-29
Updated: 2011-06-29
Packaged: 2017-10-20 20:20:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SharpestRose/pseuds/SharpestRose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is who we might have been, he thinks. Then, realising the truth of the matter, he amends the thought: this is who we are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Walking Backwards

**Then:**

On Thursday nights, the Little Whinging cinema showed classic horror films. Nobody knew where the tradition had sprung from, because it wasn't an area where one would expect such an event to happen at all, much less weekly. Nevertheless, somebody had started the routine. And if there was something that fit perfectly into the wheels and cogs of the suburb, it was routine, so the horror movies stayed and the old ladies had something else to complain about, because the screenings attracted the worst kind of bad element to the movie theatre once a week.

While no longer the self-declared ambassador of all things bad element, James Potter was not nearly so grown-up at twenty years old to want to pass up a chance at bothering people. So when Lily began to make a habit of going to the movies on horror night, he was more than happy to tag along. After a few weeks of watching lurid plotlines and painfully serious acting James, who'd never been all that interested in Muggle culture at school, was completely smitten.

"You have to see these, they're great!" he'd enthuse to his friends. Lily didn't mind that her husband did this because she'd long ago learned that really, that whole little group was joined at the hip forever after; she felt it was a victory that she'd managed to get James to live apart from them at all.

Since Sirius went along, Remus would usually end up going as well. Not always, however. He'd hesitate to agree when it was films like _Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde_ or _Revenge of the Teenage Werewolf_ , only relenting if Sirius offered to buy him something from the candy stand, and refused outright to attend whenever _The Day of the Triffids_ was on the bill.

"I don't see why," Sirius would complain. "You love the book."

"Yes. Which is why I don't want to watch a film which butchers it, thanks," Remus always retorted. "You'll survive without me for a couple of hours, Sirius. Stop pouting."

So things went on, and the tradition became a part of their lives until it was habit. One night, when the wind was making the windows rattle and groan and the candles were making dancing red-gold shadows on the dim wallpaper, Sirius asked "so what's so good about the book, then?"

"Mmm?" Remus stirred, pulling himself back from the halfway-to-dreaming drowse he'd fallen into. "What book? And give me back some covers, my leg's about to drop off from hypothermia."

"That _Triffids_ book. Why's it so good that you won't see the film?"

Remus thought for a little while, then answered "I'm sure I don't need to tell you that it's a dreadful film in its own right, you must've seen it a half-dozen times. It's awful. But, well, I suppose it's more that the book frightened me very much, and I think that sometimes it's good to keep something from becoming easy and laughable and safe. That film is like a Riddikulus charm against a Boggart which I don't want to see made stupid."

Sirius's fingertips were moving back and forth along the length of Remus's upper arm, barely touching at all. "What's so frightening, then? I thought I knew everything that scared you."

"That's because your ego is the size of a prehistoric mammoth, Padfoot. It's... it's the thought of being blind and alone when everything's gone mad. Being lost in the dark, unable to find those you'd want to be near in that situation. I think I could bear the end of the world, but not that. Not the idea that my loved ones were out there and I couldn't find them."

"I'd find you," answered Sirius. "Got a good sense of smell, haven't I? I would let you stay lost in the dark, Remus."

Remus had been unable to keep in his snort at that. "You're not quite seeing the point. This isn't the kind of fear that needs an actual plan of action to combat it. It lives somewhere deeper, in the hindbrain."

"Still." Sirius shrugged. "If it happened, we'd manage. We always do. Well, you do, and I rely on you. So I'd have to find you, so that you could take charge." Then the lighthearted tone in his voice dropped, became serious. "We'd find each other, Moony. Even in the dark, even at the end of the world. All right?"

Unexpectedly, Remus had found that his throat was choked and his eyes stinging. "Yes," he'd answered. "All right."

They'd settled down to sleep then, and Remus was on the verge of drifting off when Sirius spoke again. "And then we'd have to track down James and Lily, obviously, because he's good at making plans and she's excellent to have around when things are going rotten. All that tea-making."

"Sirius. Go to sleep. Or at least be quiet, so I can sleep."

"Peter'd be all right, because he could just hide in a wall until the trouble was over. Rats are going to outlast people, I read an article about it. They're not so fragile as we are. But the rest of us'd need looking after, so we'd have to stick together. Maybe we should have some sort of meeting-spot arranged, so we'd all know in advance where to go..."

Remus shifted over, poking Sirius in the chest with one long finger. "I can promise you, with absolute certainty that I will never be proved wrong in this prediction, that _The Day of the Triffids_ is not going to come true. So shut up, go to sleep, and let me do the same."

"Hmph," Sirius said, sounding offended. But Remus could hear the smile behind the noise, and let his head rest against Sirius's shoulder as they finally fell asleep.

-

Three years later the Thursday night trips to the cinema were still habit, but everything else was difficult and strange and tense. Sirius and Remus barely talked anymore, and when they did it was strained and difficult - even the simplest remark from one would be twisted sideways by the other.

When _The Day of the Triffids_ was up for screening again, Remus came along without comment and sat beside Sirius, who sat beside James, who sat beside Lily, and they all pretended that they were fine.

Two months later Lily and James were dead, and Sirius might as well have been, and Remus put his copy of the original novel of _The Day of the Triffids_ into a charity bin. It almost made him laugh; somewhere underneath the weight of all the other miseries he was really _cross_ at Sirius for ruining the reading of one of his favourite books, because he'd never be able to open it again without thinking of that promise, made by the light of candles, that he wouldn't be alone.

-

 **Now:**

  
It's a Saturday morning, and there are the faint noises of children playing in a back garden somewhere further down the block. The hiss of sprinklers and the smell of chemicals to make the grass grow green and lush are so strange, manufactured. Removed from nature just like everything else in this place.

Remus walks up the front path, the perfect white pebbles crunching underfoot. The rocks look newly laid, but perhaps they are just well cared for. He imagines that the sound of his knock will not echo inside; the presence of furniture and the overwarm air of the day will mute it.

After a few seconds the door opens and Remus has to bite back the gasp in his throat. There have been letters back and forth, of course, and a telephone call to Hermione. But no hint of this.

Harry is thinner than he has ever been before and one of his eyes is exhaustion-shadowed behind the lens of his glasses. The other is half-shut, skin shaded to the brown-green of a healing bruise. Remus has grown accustomed to the sight of the weight of years and sorrow on his own features, and learned every line and change on Sirius's. Now he knows just what the future would have held for James and Lily's faces, too. Their teenaged son is older and wearier than they ever had the chance to be.

"Hi, Harry," Remus says, keeping his voice mild and friendly. "May I come in?"

Harry turns and glances into the house. "I'll come out," he suggests.

They walk without making conversation, the small weekend-sounds of the day filling up the silence. Harry's had another growth spurt, Remus notices. The hand-me-down clothes of his cousin are far too big, and leave room for such changes in height, but Remus imagines that Harry will need an entirely new set of robes before his sixth year begins.

As if Harry knows that Remus' thoughts have turned to school, he suddenly says "This summer feels like it's gone on forever. And it's still got ages to go."

"Yes," Remus agrees. "Your birthday's not far off, is it?"

"Not that far, yeah," Harry answers. There's a flatness in his tone that Remus doesn't like at all. That's to be expected, though. That's why Remus is here.

"How are you, Harry?" Remus asks. Harry shrugs, his shoulders sharp-angled under his shapeless t-shirt.

"All right. I sent a letter yesterday." The tone is mildly reproachful. What almost-sixteen-year-old, after all, likes to be checked up on so constantly?

"Yes, we got it." The humidity is stifling. "Harry... it's good. To talk about it. It's important."

"You don't," retorts Harry, and scuffs one threadbare sneaker against the pavement. "Doesn't seem to me like there's anything left to say." He bites at his bottom lip and blinks twice, rapidly.

"Words can be inadequate, I agree," Remus says with a nod. "But they're a start."

"I don't think I like starts much, to be honest." Harry's smile is tight. "They seem to turn into finishes, sooner or later."

-

Remus goes home and breathes in the smell of his garden, the limp and wilted and messy and pungent and living smell of plants allowed to breach the edges of ordered beds. There are still two cardboard boxes on his kitchen table, things he has retrieved from Grimmauld place. Books, mostly, his own and those which he cannot bear to leave behind. A scarf, because the one he has is old and needed replacing. A vase with a crack in the rim, painted in delicate lines and swirls and swoops by some long-forgotten great aunt of Sirius'. Small things. Relics, or near enough that the name suffices.

He fixes a plate of food and pours himself a glass of wine (another refugee of the Black ancestral home, this one delivered by Sirius. There were three bottles originally, but two were drunk on nights that summer one endless year ago. They'd been saving this one for something Remus can no longer remember) and sits on the threshold of the back door. Insects chirp and trill, hidden in the long-stemmed weeds.

Harry cannot survive anything more. Remus thinks this to himself and then damps down on the immediate contradiction his mind offers, for the truth is that they are both capable of surviving nearly anything which the world may decide to throw at them, after a fashion. The truth is that nothing in history has ever been fair, and just because Harry should not have to survive anything more does not mean that he will be spared having to do so.

For one who has lost so much, Harry hasn't discovered the art of keeping his heart shut to fresh pains.

What would James and Lily think, if they knew what their son's life was? Perhaps it was some consolation to them, in the moment of their deaths, to think that at least the boy still had his godfather. But now there is not even that, and also there is nothing Remus can do to stop that brittle ache which has taken up residence behind Harry's eyes.

 _Nothing?_ Remus wonders. For it isn't as if there is no precedent for the resurrection of the dead. He even knows what books he can begin by searching through. There are ways and means, for seekers brave enough to face the consequences. And Remus is willing, for Harry's sake. To chase that flat note in the boy's tone away, to ease the brittle tightness of skin over bone at elbow and knee with care and comfort. Lily and James are gone forever, beyond the reach of any magics known, but Sirius's death was less than a season ago. Energy does not dissipate entirely in that small space of time.

The voice in his head which is never swayed by emotion or passion asks him if it is truly Harry's wellbeing which motivates him and not the ache in his own heart which lingers, the after-image of abruptly-ended brightness.

Remus takes another drink of wine and considers. He mourned messily, furiously, exhaustively, for Sirius, but that was many years ago. Two unexpected, sweet, patchy years of rediscovered love cannot generate more tears, cannot hurt a heart grown accustomed to the finishes which must come with starts.

It was like learning to walk backwards, in some ways. To unpack all the things which he had put away, the ways of doing things which he never expected to need knowledge of again. To think of Sirius and attach the word _now_ , rather than _then_.

Two years of letters, stolen months of stillness and touch and still-familiar whispers. One good Christmas morning, waking to the sounds of laughter and the warmth of skin. It is more than many get, and more than Remus ever expected to have.

In the werewolf trials of centuries past, the courts would cut open the skin of the accused. To check for fur. Ordinary blood and bone proved innocence, but Remus thinks that few thus cleared would choose a pardoned death over the alternative. He fancies that, were he to be so examined, there would be no unmarked tissue left inside. Only scars, for thoughts leave the deepest wounds as they turn to memories.

He was alone in the dark, and there was nobody to find him. So, after a while, he learned to stumble and survive on his own. He does not wish such a skill on anyone else, and will do whatever he must to save Harry from it.

-

There are several spells, each difficult and full of things which will probably go horribly wrong. Remus weighs up the choices, writes comprehensive letters to be sealed in envelopes and left for people in case of the worst happening. He knows that he should tell the Order what he's planning. He knows his value as a member; he is putting that value in jeopardy without their consent. But needs must, as the saying goes. So Remus doesn't tell anyone.

The first ingredient is easy enough to obtain. Remus feels a mild guilt at the misuse of the confidence he was given by Dumbledore as he makes his way to the mirror of Erised's current location. Hogwarts holds a shade of its term-time self through the summer, the echo of smells and footsteps and voices making no corridor feel truly empty.

He uses the nail-file and ordinary paper envelope he has brought with him to take a small amount of the mirror's silver backing, the powder falling like a soft rain. A few miniscule shards fall on his fingertips and he hisses, blowing on the burn as he seals the flap of the envelope and puts it into his pocket. He is ready to leave again, but first he must manage to get out of the door of this room unscathed.

The promise of the mirror's image is too much to resist. Sirius's smile will be there, his bright dark eyes. Remus knows it will hurt terribly to see that which he wants most in the world, and yet he can't look away.

 _That_ , he reminds himself wryly, _is the whole point_. The mirror shows that which transcends all other wants, including the wish to avoid renewed heartache.

It is a surprise, to say the least, when he looks into the mirror and sees nothing.

Well, the room is there. Dusty, because the house elves have been asked to leave it untouched. Late afternoon light throwing shadows over the curves and corners of the space. But Remus is absent. The world goes on quietly, undisturbed. Remus decides he doesn't want to think too deeply about what this particular vision says about the state of his mind. He decides it's best not to dwell, and to take comfort in the fact that it disconcerts even him.

Getting the second part of the formula requires a little more thought, but in the end truth seems easier than concocting a lie. He tells Harry that he is working on a spell for protection; this is not an untruth, in its way. When Remus puts the needle into the crook of Harry's arm and draws out a little blood neither of them flinch. Harry looks a little better on this occasion. Remus likes to think so, anyway. The thought that things might right themselves eventually, even if this plan fails, is a slight comfort to him.

The rest of the concoction is fairly standard and it isn't long before Remus is ready to take the gamble. He spends a few uncomfortable hours clearing the furniture from his living room and seeing that the windows shut tightly. There are a few chalk lines to draw, several candles in need of lighting. He does these tasks with especial care. Then, all in place, he begins the intricate layer upon layer of casting. It is breathless, confusing, repetitive work and to fail or falter could mean any number of unwanted consequences. On, and on, until his vision is blurred and his voice hoarse and the space so airless that the candles splutter and flick.

Morning has turned to afternoon has turned to dusk has turned to darkness and it is almost midnight before Remus reaches the last of the incantations. " _Solus rescindo_ ," he rasps, and his shoulders are so stiff that even sagging, exhausted, is more effort than he can bear.

There is a moment of stillness and then the mixture of glass and silver and wishing and blood and magic flares up bright, like a match touched to gunpowder. The window-shutters crack open as the dead air of the room is pushed, displaced. One of the candles, burned from a tall and elegant line down to little more than a stump, falls onto its side. Remus tries to draw breath, and then finds that he is fainting.

-

"Maybe we should fetch somebody. It's been nearly a half-hour."

"Hang on, I think he's waking up. Remus? You all right?"

"Sirius?" Remus forces his eyes open. His vision is still blurred and stinging. Thin fingers rest themselves atop his hand and he grabs on, the touch so familiar that he fears he's trapped in a sweetly cruel dream.

"I'm here. You knocked your head. You don't feel like your brain's bleeding or anything, do you? I don't know what spell to do for that. And your wands always hate me, so if I tried to use it I'd probably give you an extra frontal lobe or something."

Remus squeezes Sirius's hand tighter. Real, real, real. It seems ridiculous that they should be discussing Remus's health when Sirius...

"Sirius. Are you... I mean, did it... are you in any pain? Did it really work?" Remus blinks, trying to get the room in focus. "Who were you talking to?"

Over near the door into the kitchen, somebody clears their throat. "Er. Hullo, Moony."

" _James?_ " Remus ignores the sickly dip and sway of his equilibrium as he sits up abruptly. And, sure enough, James Potter is standing against the faded yellow wallpaper. His glasses are broken and stuck together with spellotape.

"Don't move too fast. That was an extremely tricky spell. You wore yourself out," James says. He sounds reproving. Remus is struck again by the surreal turn his life seems to have taken; he is being told off by a friend for accidentally bringing him back from the dead.

"James," Remus says again.

"Sure his brain wasn't broken, Sirius? He seems to have run out of words."

"You're awfully lighthearted for someone who's just..." Remus pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to swallow. His throat and mouth are painfully dry, and he suspects that he would vomit if he'd eaten anything recently. "Could I have a glass of water?"

"Lil's making tea, if you want some of that."

Of course. Lily always made tea when there was a crisis. She had a notebook with a list of how everybody she knew took it, so she wouldn't have to ask them while they were busy with more important things.

"I'm sorry about this," Remus says. He's still holding Sirius's hand, and the skin is warm and calloused and real, real. "But I think I'm going to pass out again."

-

  
This time, he lies still for half a minute before even opening his eyes. The unfathomable reality of the situation is yet to sink in, but that doesn't mean that it does not need to be dealt with. Remus sits up slowly.

"The tea's still fresh if you want some," Lily offers. She's the only other inhabitant of the room, the chair she sits perched on the only furniture present. Somebody put a pillow under Remus's head, too. Faint noises from the kitchen suggest that Sirius and James are catching up on a decade and half's worth of lost time in their friendship. A shout of "You're _kidding_!" shatters the calm for a moment before the sounds fade back into a murmur.

"I'd love a cup. Can we go outside? I think I need a bit of fresh air." Remus stands shakily. The catch of the front door sticks at the best of times and now it takes him five or six tries to work the handle. His joints ache beyond the worst transformations he's gone through. The edges of his vision are still fuzzed, and he cannot seem to draw a proper breath. Remus wonders how tired and fragile he must appear to Lily, who is still the sharp-eyed twenty-four-year-old of so long ago.

"Of course. I'll get it, you wait here." She dashes off, obviously thankful that she has a task to focus on. Remus steps out into the monochromatic shades of the night, glad that no amount of upheaval in his life can alter the simple truths of clear sky and clean air. He wonders again if he will wake up soon and find all this a dream. Or perhaps he did not survive his reckless spell-casting, and this is an unexpected kind of afterlife.

"Here. Sirius said that you still like lots of sugar." Lily hands him a mug and stands beside him on the grass, looking around at the trees and the path and the road and the house. "This all looks just the same as the last time I was here. I can't believe... is what Sirius said true? He wasn't sure, but he said you don't look all that much older than when he..." she pauses, as if not quite believing that she must phrase the idea as it demands to be described. "When he died. But he said that it's about fifteen years since James and I were attacked. Is that right? I can't believe that it is, when your garden looks just like it did when we visited in May."

"I remember that." Remus smiles faintly, sipping his tea. "James had his arm in a sling, and you wanted to cut all your hair off. Harry had developed a habit of pulling on it, and it hurt your head."

"And we worried that we'd caught you and Sirius in the middle of a row, but neither of you would say if anything was wrong. You were so quiet." Lily shivers despite the warmth and her woollen cardigan. "Sirius won't tell us much. Is it so bad, Remus? Is the world... it was such a shock, seeing you and Sirius. You have to understand, for us it felt like no time at all. Then to see you, as you are now, so -"

"Old?" Remus suggests, taking another mouthful of tea. His tone is kind, but Lily flushes pink right up to the top of her forehead.

"Worn out. Sad. I used to think that things were pretty terrible as they were. People were dying and losing everything, and yet we had so much _hope_." She wraps her hands around her forearms, hugging her own chest against the onslaught of the world. "What right did I have to bring a child into this misery?"

"What would have been the point of any of it, without that?" Remus counters.

"I don't know. You tell me," Lily shoots back. Her words are as sharp as she ever gets, and Remus is struck by how quickly and effortlessly his thoughts about her have slipped back into the present tense. Some people never lose that quality entirely in his head, it is like how addicts are told to think of their vices. "Even the Remus I knew fifteen years ago wouldn't have done a spell like that just for himself, and somehow I'm inclined to think that you take even less care of yourself now than you did then. Does Harry need him that badly? Is he so lacking for others to love him?"

"There are many who love Harry, Lily," he says without pause. It is a simple truth, and needs no gloss. The next words are harder to phrase, and Remus considers them carefully. "But nobody else could be was Sirius was... is. Family is more than just love."

"Mm." Lily nods. Then she tries to speak, starting the thought with her son's name, and her voice cracks and goes quiet with what is almost a bitten-back moan of pain. Remus moves, touches her forearm lightly. They never were prone to hugging one another, despite the confidences they would share.

"My baby is almost sixteen years old. It still feels like it was only a few hours ago I held him in my arms and read him a bedtime story. I keep thinking things like 'I hope nobody feeds Harry anything with peas in it, they make him irritable', or 'I hope he's just making faces when he screws his eyes up, children can say such unkind things to little boys with glasses'. And then a second later I remember that he's gone, grown up without me there to look after him. I threw up, when Sirius told us how long it had been."

"I think I would have reacted the same way." Remus puts the now-empty teacup down on the front step and rests a hand on Lily's shoulder. "Don't take this the wrong way, Lily, but I never would have wished anybody a return after so much time. I can't imagine how you feel."

"You'd be able to hazard a guess, I'm sure." Lily gives him a tight smile, her eyes shiny with tears. "I hate myself, for not being there. For abandoning him. Sirius said that he's staying with my sister - I hope he's having a nice time. I'm afraid I never really made an effort to keep in touch with Petunia, even though we both had babies of about the same age. Alice and I would take our prams out to the park and plan all kinds of things for our boys to do as they grew up. I suppose little Neville's nearly sixteen, too." She sighs, breath heavy with regret. "I wish I'd been there to see them grow up."

It's a long time before Remus knows what to say. He doesn't know what Sirius has told them, if they know even the slightest bit of what Harry's life has been since that night in Godric's Hollow. "You're here now."

"Will we go to see him today, in the morning? James wanted to go as soon as you woke up, but Sirius wanted to talk about everything that's happened. Why doesn't he want us to meet Harry, Remus? I keep worrying that Harry hates us, for leaving. "

"Lily, you didn't 'leave'. You died protecting him."

"You're not answering my questions."

Remus sighs and shuts his eyes. There is a huge and throbbing headache forming at his temples. He wonders if it's possible that he did injure his brain. It would explain the dizzy wobble in his balance.

"Tomorrow," he says eventually. "We'll go see Harry tomorrow."

-

They talk about the war, and about Peter's betrayal, and the state of the world in general. Whenever the topic gets too close to Harry, or to themselves, Remus and Sirius steer it onto easier tracks as quickly as they can. James and Lily, if they notice this, do not comment on it. Remus sits and revels in the sight of them, the sound of their voices. He does not feel entirely connected to the world around him, but this sensation lessens once he's eaten a piece of toast and drunk another cup of tea. He cannot bring himself to let go of Sirius's hand for more than a few seconds at a time.

"You look rotten, Padfoot," James says after a lull in the discussion. "I mean, even for someone who's been dead, you look terrible."

Remus is fairly sure that Sirius is incapable of being offended by anything James says, but offers an answer quickly nonetheless. "This last year's been... difficult. Sirius has spent a lot of time at the Grimmauld house."

"Ugh." James makes a face so disgusted that both Sirius and Remus cannot hold back their grins. James's expressions were always his best comedic assets. "No wonder, then."

"That reminds me." Remus cannot believe he forgot something so vital, even in these circumstances. "Your name's been cleared, Sirius. You're a free man."

"What happened?" Lily asks, as Sirius hits the tabletop with one palm and shouts "about bloody time. Waiting until I'm dead, the sods!".

"Run-in with the law?" James seems equal parts amused and curious. Remus gives Sirius a puzzled look.

"You didn't tell them?"

"Tell us _what_?" Lily's voice is taking on the icicle-edged tones which were once reserved for interrogating suspected Death Eaters.

"There are..." Remus speaks carefully, constructing a version of the truth as rapidly as he can. "Corrupt people in high places. As there always have been, I suppose. It suited the interests of some for Sirius to be... out of the way."

"I was in Azkaban," Sirius says in a matter-of-fact tone. Lily and James breathe in sharply, their eyes wide with horror. "I got out again, obviously," Sirius adds, and his hand holds onto Remus's tightly. The thought of telling Lily and James the unvarnished reality of the past decade and a half is horrifying for them both, it seems. They will soften it however they can.

"God." James runs his hand through his hair, pulling it into even more of a tangle than it already was. "How long?"

Sirius shrugs. "You know what it's like with those... _things_. Even a little while feels like forever." He takes a deep breath. "But it's over now. Harry's on the Gryfinndor Quidditch team, you know. As if there was any doubt that he would be."

" _Somebody_ bought him an extremely expensive broom for Christmas, year before last," Remus adds in an arch voice. "But he's talented enough that he'd be fine if he had to fly on a mop."

James beams with pride.

-

Just after three-thirty, Sirius gives another jaw-cracking yawn and stands. "Sorry to break up the party, but I feel -" His mouth curves into a wide and wicked smile. "Like death warmed up."

James groans. Sirius ignores him and continues talking. "If we're going to see Harry this afternoon, I'm going to get a bit of sleep in first." Sirius heads towards the bedroom and Remus remembers that he did not think to make the bed when he got up almost twenty-four hours ago. His hand aches at being empty once again and his fingers curl in, until the blunt edges of his nails press against the palm.

Lily asks if anybody wants more tea and seems surprised when James and Remus shake their heads. She has made four teapots' worth in the last hour. Excusing herself, she retreats to the garden, and there is the faint sound of sobbing from outside shortly after. Suddenly, it seems a cruelty to keep the full extent of the last fifteen years' trouble from James and Lily. Careful phrasing cannot cushion the grief which they will feel.

"All right?" James asks. Remus nods, realising with a wash of surprise that he finds himself reminded of Harry by James's movements and expressions. It seems an entire lifetime ago that he found James in Harry's looks at the start of the boy's third year. The fact that they have switched places in the comparison seems terribly sad - even in such a trivial thing, James has faded into history and been replaced by the living and present.

Any other time, Remus would be glad of this. It is healthy to move on and he has had much practise in the ways in which one does so. But, now that James and Lily are back, all the steps towards healing which those who knew them have taken are steps away from people who now need their friends close around them. The world has long ago said goodbye to James and Lily, and now they must try to find a place in it again.

At least Remus, as well as being skilled at moving on, already knows the art of walking backwards.

Realising he hasn't answered James, Remus says "yes. Just surprised. But happy."

"We'll have to let Dumbledore know we're back," James muses. "Maybe he can shed some light on how it's possible."

"Yes. But we'll see Harry first. The rest can wait."

James nods and runs a hand through his hair. His voice is serious when he next speaks. "Things have been rough, haven't they?"

"Yes," Remus answers. He has spent the last two hours worrying about how Harry will deal with the shock of seeing Sirius, James, and Lily. He still isn't sure how he's managing it himself.

"I'm worried that I won't know how to be a good dad to a teenager. I expected to have a while to get the hang of parenthood in general before this particular test, y'see." The words are lighthearted, but the dread and concern on James's face is real.

"You'll be fine," Remus assures him. Then, remembering his decision to tell the whole truth, "His patronus is a stag."

"Really?" James sits up, grinning. Suddenly his smile turns to a frown and a line of puzzlement appears between his dark brows. "Wait... what? Why's Harry needed to learn a spell like that?"

Remus draws in a deep breath, and wonders if having to live through this moment is the price he paid for bringing them back. "Perhaps it's best if we get Lily back in here before I start."

-

It's four-forty-five when Remus stumbles down the hall towards his bedroom. His dizziness has abated somewhat, but a bone-deep weariness has taken its place and he can barely stay upright. James and Lily insisted that he get some sleep, despite his protests that he was fine and that he wanted to answer all their questions. They're going through his books and papers now, learning about the aftershock of their deaths. Remus transfigured an armchair into a wide, if plain, bed for them, but doubts they will use it.

Clouds have blown in and covered the sky over the last few hours and the day is dawning limp and gray. Remus pauses in the doorway of his bedroom, his tiredness forgotten as he gazes at the sight before him. Sirius has kicked off the thin coverlet Remus uses through the summertime and is sprawled over a good two thirds of the bed. His hair is a tangle across the pillows and faint snores signal every breath. The sun, rising unseen behind the drizzling rain, has added a faint wash of colour over the greys and blacks of the night. Though Sirius is still wearing his robes, he has tossed his shoes aside.

Remus blinks rapidly against the sting of his eyes and stretches out on the unoccupied portion of the bed, the simplicity of the moment enough to make his throat choke up.

"Was starting to wonder if you'd given up on sleep entirely," Sirius mutters sleepily, rolling over to face him. Remus moves one hand to cup the back of Sirius's neck and pulls him close, kissing him hard.

"You're lucky I let you out of my sight long enough for you to get some rest yourself," Remus answers, running his palm down the coarse length of Sirius's hair. "I've half a mind to cut this off right this second, but I think I'm slightly too tired to be trusted with scissors. First thing we wake up, though, it's all going."

"You just couldn't bear the idea of me going off into the netherworld looking scruffy, could you? Raising the dead to tidy their grooming habits is veering towards slightly anal retentive behaviour, you know." Sirius's words are whispered into Remus's ear as he holds him skin to skin, as if they can get so close to one another that they'll never be pulled apart again.

"God. Sirius. God."

"I tend to just go by 'Sirius' these days, but thanks all the same."

And Remus finds himself laughing, suddenly, joy bubbling up inside him like liquor or drugs or lightning or a thousand other clumsy metaphors which flick through his mind like sped-up film. If he was a different sort of person, he might cry, but as it is he can do nothing but laugh and kiss and marvel in the reality of Sirius.

-

Eventually they do sleep, some hours later. When they wake again, the rain has cleared outside and all the world is quiet and growing.

"Does your life flash before your eyes? At the end?" Remus asks, curious. Sirius chews on his lip, considering his reply, and Remus has to delay the answer for a few minutes as he kisses Sirius again.

"It's your own fault, for having such a nice-looking mouth," explains Remus. "Can't help myself."

Sirius just grins at him. "Do you want the answer or not?"

"Yes." Remus settles against him, liking the way each rise and fall of Sirius's breathing moves against Remus's own chest in this position. They are both too thin; like Sirius's unkempt hair, this is not something Remus will let slide this time.

"Well, my life didn't flash before my eyes. But, when Bella hit me... no, you'll think it's stupid. It _is_ stupid."

"Padfoot, shut up and tell me."

"All right, all right. I thought of the nightstand on your side of the bed that morning. There was that Trippids -"

"Triffids."

"That's what I said."

"No, you said Trippids. 's f, not p."

"Well, anyway, there was that book you were reading. You were hardly any of the way through it, even though you'd been at it for ages. And I'd asked you a few days before why you were going so slowly and you said that you hadn't remembered quite how sad it was, and it was difficult to get through."

Sirius begins running one hand through Remus's hair, the pad of his thumb tracing small circles against the edge of one eyebrow as he continues to speak. "And your alarm clock, which was always set for seven-thirty. You always woke up at seven, though. You told me once that the idea of being dragged out of sleep by the sound of the alarm clock was so repellant that you spared yourself the experience by waking up before it was due to go off.

"So, no, my life didn't flash before my eyes. Your bedside table did. Of all the inglorious deaths to have, that's got to rate somewhere near the top."

"That's quite a lot of thoughts to have in a moment, even if it's not a lifetime's worth."

"It was a slow moment. It felt like forever."

"Yes."

Remus shivers, tightening the arm he has wrapped around Sirius's waist. "I don't know what's supposed to happen next. Now that you're back, and James, and Lily. I don't know what we're meant to do now."

"You berk." Sirius's laugh is affectionate. "We live, of course."

-

In the late afternoon they are finally ready to set off. Sirius has allowed his hair to be clipped short, assuming an attitude of tolerance towards the proceedings. Lily and James have slept, a little, but her face is puffy and his is pinched from the sadness and stress of their unique situation.

Lily makes a pot of tea and Remus fixes a simple meal and they sit, nervous and jittery, and pretend to eat and drink.

"Can we -" James starts, then hesitates. His expression is slightly embarrassed. "Can we get the train? Don't know if I want to Apparate around just yet, all things considered."

So they take the train, four nondescript people in the rush-hour crowds. With his new haircut, Sirius has lost some of his haggard, ruined aura; by contrast, James and Lily have gained the weight of weariness and worry overnight. The gulf of fifteen years, which draws a line down the centre of the four of them, has been narrowed.

Remus catches sight of their reflections in the window of the train, the image overlaying the nimbus of early-evening electric light outside. _This is who we might have been_ , he thinks. Then, realising the truth of the matter, he amends the thought: _this is who we are_.

They walk from the station, through streets which have not grown any less dead-feeling since the last time Remus visited. Even the air feels like it has been put through the rigors of taxidermy, here. Lily wraps her arms across her chest, hugging her upper arms against the atmosphere.

"I wonder," she says conversationally. "If I'm going to kill my sister. I can't decide."

"It wouldn't change the past," Remus reminds her gently. "And the future's what matters now."

"I know, I just -" With a sigh of frustration, Lily lets the end of the sentence remain unsaid. There is a steel behind her gaze, a fury beyond even that which flares when Peter is mentioned to her. It is one thing to cause a death, but another entirely to ruin a life.

The gravel path is neat and new-looking still. Sirius busies himself with turning the garden gnomes of the next door neighbours upside-down, a row of bright red ceramic boots sticking jauntily towards the heavens. James leads the way, walking with a steady, methodical stride which Remus cannot remember from times past.

Lily breathes in with a little gasp of fright as James knocks twice.

A moment of stillness. Sirius and Remus look at one another and Sirius gives a tight smile, as if to say _it's going to be an uphill battle, all right, but better up a hill than down it_. Remus nods, with a small smile of his own. Against his better judgment, he is beginning to believe the sentiment. Somehow, eventually, they're going to be all right.

The door opens.

"Hi, Harry," says James.


End file.
